My boots stayed planted in the mud just beyond the swamp’s edge. Fifty yards of damp track separated me from Captain Borin and his two lackeys. Fifty yards felt like a mile under his stare. I didn’t move, didn’t flinch. Just met his gaze across the pre-dawn gloom, the faint purple light bleeding into the sky doing little to soften the hard lines of his face.

  The two Watchmen flanking him shifted, their spears held a little tighter. Their lantern light glinted off the wet, dark patches staining my cloak and leggings – swamp water, mud, and the blackish ichor of the Gloomfang Lurker. Not exactly the picture of innocence. Then again, innocence wasn’t something I dealt in anymore.

  Borin trudged forward, his heavy boots making sucking sounds in the muck. He stopped about ten feet away, close enough that I could smell the damp wool of his uniform and the faint, stale scent of cheap pipe tobacco clinging to him. His eyes, shrewd and grey like river stones, scanned me from head to toe, lingering pointedly on the bulging, oilcloth-wrapped bundle strapped to my pack.

  “Gloomfang Lurker,” he stated, his voice a low rumble that carried easily in the quiet. “Nasty business. Found out past the Mire’s Edge, then? You’re a long way from the usual patrol routes. Long way from the safe zones.”

  His emphasis wasn’t lost on me. The Watch barely bothered with the deep swamp; too dangerous, not enough profit in it for them. They stuck to the fringes, dealing with predictable threats, leaving the real monsters to lunatics like me.

  “Bounty hunting,” I replied curtly. My voice felt rough, unused after hours of silence broken only by the sounds of combat and my own ragged breathing. I offered no further explanation. Borin didn’t need my life story. He wouldn’t care anyway.

  He narrowed his eyes, unconvinced. “Alone? In the Blackmire? At night?” He tilted his head slightly. “That’s either reckless stupidity or uncommon skill.” He paused, letting the implication hang in the air. “Which is it, Valerius?”

  He used my surname. He rarely did. It felt like a probe, a test. Maybe trying to see if it sparked some flicker of recognition, some connection to a past I kept buried six feet deep. Or maybe he just liked reminding me he knew something, even if he didn’t know the whole damn truth. Thank the gods for that.

  Wary, The Hunger whispered, a cold ripple beneath my skin. Not an aggressive urge, just… observation. He watches. He remembers.

  “Effective,” I said, keeping my tone flat, neutral. I shifted my weight slightly, settling into a more balanced stance. Not overtly threatening, but ready. Always ready. My hands remained deliberately visible, away from my swords. Let him see I wasn’t looking for trouble with him. Not right now.

  Borin held my gaze for a long, uncomfortable moment. I could almost see the gears turning in his head – suspicion warring with the pragmatic need for people like me to handle the jobs his men couldn’t, or wouldn’t. Finally, he gave a small, reluctant grunt. Acceptance, or perhaps just dismissal.

  “Fine,” he clipped out. “Just see you don’t bring any of the Mire’s trouble back with you. We’ve got enough filth of our own in Stonehaven.” He stepped aside, a clear, grudging gesture for me to pass. His eyes didn’t leave me until I was well past him and his men.

  I didn’t look back. Didn’t acknowledge the other two Watchmen, who eyed me with open distrust as I walked by, smelling faintly of death and swamp. Let them stare. Let them wonder. As long as they didn’t know the truth coiled inside me, their suspicion was just background noise.

  The muddy track gradually firmed up as I left the swamp further behind. Ahead, rising from the damp plains like a cluster of grey, weathered teeth, were the walls of Stonehaven. Even in the weak dawn light, they looked formidable – thick stone, scarred by time and siege, punctuated by watchtowers where tiny figures moved. Smoke curled from countless chimneys within, painting lazy smudges against the brightening sky.

  The oppressive, dripping quiet of the Blackmire slowly gave way to the distant, growing hum of the city waking up. The rumble of cart wheels on cobblestones, the faint shouts of early vendors setting up stalls in the Market Quarter, the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith’s hammer already at work. Sounds of life. Sounds of civilization.

  They grated on my nerves.

  My enhanced hearing, a ‘gift’ I couldn’t turn off, picked up every little noise, layering them into a cacophony that felt like sandpaper on my brain after the relative silence of the wild. The smells changed too. The clean, earthy scent of the plains surrendered to the city’s miasma – woodsmoke, damp stone, packed earth, livestock, cooking food, and the ever-present undercurrent of unwashed bodies and refuse. It wasn’t the smell of active rot, like the swamp, but the smell of too many people living too close together.

  As I approached the main gate – a heavy, iron-banded wooden structure set into a massive stone archway – I pulled the hood of my cloak further forward, shadowing my face. Habit. Self-preservation. In the wilds, I was a hunter. In the city, I was prey, always wary of discovery.

  The two guards stationed at the gate straightened up as I approached. Their eyes, bored moments before, sharpened as they took in my appearance. Mud-caked, dripping, carrying the distinct bulge of harvested monster parts. One of them wrinkled his nose, likely catching a whiff of Lurker ichor.

  “State your business,” the taller one grunted, his hand resting on the spear shaft leaned against the wall beside him.

  “Bounty return,” I said, keeping my voice low and even. “Gloomfang Lurker.”

  He glanced at the bundle on my pack, then back at my shadowed face. There was a flicker of something – curiosity? Revulsion? – but he just nodded curtly. Lone hunters, especially successful ones returning from dangerous zones like the Blackmire, weren’t common, but they weren’t unheard of either. Probably figured I was just another desperate soul scraping a living on the dangerous frontier. He wasn’t entirely wrong.

  “Move along,” he said, waving me through.

  Stepping under the archway and into Stonehaven proper felt like stepping into a different world. The noise immediately intensified. The main thoroughfare, even this early, was already bustling. Muddy cobblestones slick with morning dew, narrow streets hemmed in by tall, leaning timber-framed buildings. People hurried past – merchants hauling sacks, sleepy-eyed labourers heading to work, housewives with empty baskets heading towards the market.

  The sheer proximity of so many warm bodies, so much concentrated life, sent a faint, uncomfortable tremor through The Hunger. Not hunger, exactly – it was sated, for now. More like… awareness. A low-level hum beneath my ribs, a feeling like being in a room full of static electricity. I pushed it down, focusing on the ground in front of me, navigating the throng, keeping my head down and my cloak tight around me. Just another shadow in a city full of them.

  My first stop was the official Bounty Posting Office. A squat, functional building of grey stone tucked away near the edge of the Market Quarter, perpetually smelling of stale ink and desperation. Inside, the air was close, lit by a couple of flickering oil lamps despite the grey light filtering through the grimy windows. A few other hopefuls loitered near the large wooden board plastered with notices, their faces grim or resigned.

  I ignored them and went straight to the scarred wooden counter that ran along one wall. Behind it sat a man whose entire being screamed ‘bored clerk’. Mid-thirties, maybe, with thinning hair, ink stains permanently ground into his fingers, and eyes that had seen too many failed hunters and dubious monster parts. He looked up from his ledger with an expression of profound disinterest.

  “Yes?”

  I didn’t waste words. I unstrapped the oilcloth bundle from my pack and carefully laid the harvested Gloomfang parts on the counter: the sealed venom sac, the handful of large claws, the patch of iridescent hide. The faint, acrid smell of the Lurker rose from them.

  The clerk wrinkled his nose again – seemed to be a common reaction this morning – but leaned forward to inspect the goods. He poked at the hide with an ink-stained finger, squinted at the claws, then picked up the venom sac, holding it up to the light. He seemed satisfied with its integrity.

  “Gloomfang,” he muttered, making a note in his ledger. He placed the sac on a small, brass scale, adding tiny weights until it balanced. “Standard weight. Purity looks acceptable.” He consulted a chart tacked to the wall behind him, covered in cramped handwriting and calculations.

  After a moment of calculation, involving much lip-chewing and scratching with his quill, he reached under the counter and pulled out a small, worn leather pouch. He counted out the coins onto the counter with agonizing slowness. Silver shillings and copper pennies. Not many of them.

  “Seventeen shillings, sixpence,” he announced, pushing the meager pile towards me.

  I stared at the coins. Seventeen shillings. Barely enough to cover a week’s cheap lodging, a few meals, and maybe resupply some basic necessities like whetstones and bandages. The official bounties barely kept pace with the cost of living, let alone the risk involved. Fucking bureaucrats.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “Market rate’s dropped,” the clerk said, noticing my expression, though his tone suggested he couldn’t care less. “Flood of Mire parts last month. Supply and demand, you know.”

  Yeah, I knew. I also knew the Guild merchants buying this stuff off the city would sell it to alchemists for triple the price. The whole system was rigged against the poor bastards actually doing the bleeding and dying.

  Swallowing my frustration – anger wouldn’t put more coin in my pouch – I swept the coins into my own nearly empty purse. The weight felt insultingly light. Before leaving, I glanced over at the bounty board. Maybe there was something else, something quick and easy to tide me over.

  My eyes scanned the notices. Giant Rats infesting the Old Granary – 2 shillings per dozen tails. Pathetic. Sewer Grubs clogging drains near the Tannery District – Warning: Noxious Fumes. Even more pathetic. Warning: Increased Shambler activity reported near the Scar Plains – Area Forbidden by Watch Order. Useful. A few faded posters detailed missing persons or livestock, likely victims of mundane bandits or common predators the Watch couldn’t be bothered with.

  Nothing. Nothing worth the time or risk through official channels. No Apex predators listed, no high-threat incursions needing immediate attention. Just the dregs.

  My coin pouch felt heavier than lead now, heavy with the weight of impending need. I needed supplies. I needed rest. And eventually, sooner rather than later, The Hunger would start demanding another meal. A real meal. Seventeen shillings wouldn’t cut it.

  There was only one other option.

  Decision made, I turned and left the sterile disappointment of the Bounty Office, melting back into the flow of the street. But instead of heading towards the more reputable inns or markets, I cut down a narrow side alley, then another, deliberately heading towards the lower levels of Stonehaven. Towards the Undercroft.

  The atmosphere changed quickly. The streets grew narrower, twisting like cramped intestines beneath the overhang of the buildings above. Sunlight struggled to reach down here, leaving the alleys perpetually cloaked in shadow and dampness. The air grew thicker, smelling of mildew, coal smoke, cheap ale, and something vaguely unpleasant I couldn’t quite place – maybe just accumulated grime and misery. Fewer merchants shouted their wares here; instead, watchful eyes peered from darkened doorways and windows boarded up with rough planks. Deals happened in whispers, and trouble flared quickly and brutally.

  This was Flicker’s territory.

  I knew the way by heart, navigating the labyrinthine alleys until I reached a particularly dilapidated tavern called The Leaky Mug. Its sign, depicting a mug with questionable liquid dripping from a crack, swung creakily in the damp breeze. Ignoring the main entrance, I slipped around back into a narrow, refuse-strewn passage. Halfway down, almost hidden behind overflowing rubbish bins, was a plain, unmarked wooden door, its paint peeling, looking like it led nowhere important.

  Exactly as Flicker intended.

  I knocked twice, paused, then once more. The specific pattern. After a moment, the sound of bolts being drawn back echoed from within. The door creaked open a few inches, revealing a sliver of a dimly lit interior.

  The room beyond was small, cluttered, and chaotic. Shelves overflowed with dusty books, strange artifacts in jars, bundles of dried herbs, and stacks of parchment tied with faded ribbon. The air hung thick with the smell of old paper, dust, something sharp and chemical – probably one of Flicker’s alchemical experiments – and the faint, sweet scent of the dried Moonpetal he sometimes burned to ‘clear the air’ or ward off casual magical detection, more likely.

  Finnian “Flicker” Quill sat hunched over a heavy wooden desk piled high with ledgers and maps, peering at something through spectacles perched precariously on the end of his sharp nose. He was a wiry man, older than he probably looked, with ink-stained fingers, thinning grey hair escaping a messy bun, and eyes that missed nothing despite their watery appearance. His clothes were dark and vaguely respectable, but looked like they hadn’t been properly cleaned in months.

  He looked up as I entered, his gaze sharp behind the lenses. A thin, knowing smile touched his lips, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Flicker’s smiles rarely did.

  “Saria,” he rasped, his voice like dry leaves skittering across pavement. “Back from the muck, I see. Successful hunt, judging by the lingering… aroma.” He gestured vaguely towards me with a quill pen. “Gloomfang, wasn’t it? Heard the whispers down at the gates.”

  Of course he had. Flicker heard everything in Stonehaven eventually. Information was his primary currency, more valuable than gold or monster parts.

  I didn’t bother with pleasantries. Flicker didn’t appreciate them, and I didn’t have the energy. I pushed the door shut behind me, the sound echoing slightly in the cluttered space. Moving further into the room, I stopped in front of his desk.

  “Need work, Flicker,” I said, getting straight to the point. “Real work. Not chasing sewer rats for pennies.” I pulled out my meager coin pouch and dropped it onto the desk with a dull thud. It landed next to a jar containing what looked suspiciously like pickled eyeballs. “And I need information. Anything solid on the Argent Hand? Heard they might be sniffing around the Fringe.”

  My ribs gave a dull throb as I leaned slightly on the desk. The Hunger was quiet, but the question about the Argent Hand made a cold little knot form in my stomach. They were zealots, hunters of anything they deemed ‘unnatural’. That included people like me. Especially people like me.

  Flicker completely ignored the coin pouch, his eyes fixed on my face. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his ink-stained fingers under his chin. He tapped his lower lip thoughtfully with a long fingernail.

  “Work…” he mused, drawing the word out. “Yes, there’s always work for those willing to get their hands dirty. Very dirty, in this case.” He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “Risky. Very risky. But the pay reflects that, naturally.”

  He paused, letting me absorb that. Flicker never undersold the danger; it was part of his negotiation tactic. But he also rarely offered high-risk jobs unless the payout was substantial.

  “Several caravan guards vanished without a trace about three days ago,” he continued, tapping a finger on a rolled map lying amidst the clutter on his desk. “Near the old Whispering Crypts, out in the Jagged Fringe. Locals are spooked silent. Muttering about shadows that move too fast, things that… drain the life right out of you before you can scream.” He raised a thin, grey eyebrow, his gaze sharp and meaningful. “Sounded like something that might pique your… unique interests.”

  My breath caught slightly. Drain the life. That sounded disturbingly familiar. Either some kind of energy-leeching creature, or worse, something connected to… entities like The Hunger. A chill that had nothing to do with the damp Undercroft air traced its way down my spine.

  Flicker noticed my reaction, a flicker aptly named bastard of shrewd understanding in his eyes. He pushed a rolled piece of thick parchment across the desk towards me. It was sealed with plain wax, no identifying marks.

  “The merchant consortium that owned the caravan wants answers,” he said. “Details are sparse. Investigate the disappearance. Determine the threat. Eliminate it, if possible. Proof of elimination required for full payment. They’re offering a significant sum.” He named a figure that made my eyebrows shoot up despite myself. Enough to keep me going for months. Enough to potentially buy some breathing room, maybe even invest in better gear. Or information about the Incident.

  He let me consider it for a moment, then addressed my other question. “As for your other query… the Argent Hand.” His expression turned slightly more serious. “Yes, the whispers are true. More than whispers, now. I saw one of their known recruiters myself, yesterday, plain as day in the Market Quarter. A stern woman with eyes like chips of ice. Asking questions. Very quietly, very discreetly. About ‘unnatural hunters’ operating on the fringes.”

  He leaned forward again, his voice barely above a whisper, his gaze locking onto mine with pointed intensity. “Be careful who you bleed around, Saria. Some stains don’t wash out. And the Hand… they don’t offer second chances.”

  I picked up the contract parchment, the rough paper cool against my skin. The weight of the potential coin felt heavy in my hand, balanced against the chilling description of the threat and Flicker’s stark warning about the Argent Hand. Shadows that drain life. Zealots hunting people like me. It felt like the walls were closing in.

  But what choice did I have? Seventeen shillings wouldn’t last the week. And The Hunger… The Hunger would need feeding again soon. This contract offered both the means to survive and, potentially, a target suitable for satiating it. The risk was enormous. But sitting here, slowly starving while waiting for the Argent Hand to find me, was arguably riskier.

  “I’ll take it,” I said, my voice firm.

  Flicker gave a slow nod, a glint of satisfaction – or perhaps just professional detachment – in his eyes. “Thought you might. Payment upon verified completion, as always. Half now, if you need supplies?”

  I shook my head. “Keep it. I’ll collect the full amount when the job’s done.” Better not to owe Flicker anything if I could help it. Taking advances felt like tightening the leash he already held.

  Tucking the parchment securely inside my tunic, I turned to leave. “One more thing, Flicker. The Whispering Crypts. Anything… unusual about them? Besides the obvious?”

  Flicker steepled his fingers again, tapping his chin. “Old place. Pre-Cataclysm ruins, mostly collapsed. Supposedly built over a convergence of ley lines, according to some dusty scrolls I acquired. Never substantiated. Prone to strange fogs and unsettling silences, even before this latest business. Tread carefully. Some places hold echoes longer than others.”

  Great. Crypts, shadows, missing people, potential energy leeches, and maybe dodgy magic. Just another Tuesday.

  I left Flicker’s shop, the heavy door closing behind me with a soft click, plunging me back into the dim, damp reality of the Undercroft alley. The contract felt like a lead weight tucked against my ribs. The coin was good, desperately needed. But the description of the threat… it resonated uncomfortably, disturbingly close to the nature of the entity sharing my body. Was it another symbiote? Some other kind of energy parasite? Or just a standard monster with a nasty feeding habit?

  Melting back into the shadows, I navigated the familiar twists and turns, heading towards the steps that led up out of the Undercroft and towards the slightly more reputable parts of Stonehaven where I could find an inn that didn’t charge by the hour or demand blood samples. Need to rest, clean my gear, maybe eat something that wasn’t scavenged or cooked over a miserable campfire.

  As I turned a corner onto a slightly wider street, slick with a recent drizzle, the hairs on the back of my neck prickled. My enhanced hearing, usually a curse in the city’s noise, suddenly became an asset. Amidst the drip of water from overhangs and the distant city hum, I caught it – the faint, distinct scuff of a leather boot sole on wet cobblestone behind me. Too quiet. Too deliberate for a random passerby stumbling through the Undercroft.

  Someone was following me.

  My heart gave a heavy thump against my ribs. Casually, as if just scanning my surroundings, I slowed my pace slightly and glanced back over my shoulder. My eyes swept the street behind me, past a hunched beggar huddled in a doorway, past a stack of rotting crates.

  There. In the deep shadows beneath a stone archway connecting two buildings, maybe fifty paces back. A flicker of movement. And then, just for a fraction of a second before the figure melted back deeper into the darkness, a glint of light. Silver on white. Unmistakable, even in the gloom. The stylised, mailed fist crushing a serpent – the symbol of the Argent Hand, etched onto a vambrace worn on the figure’s forearm.

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  They weren’t just asking questions in the Market Quarter. They weren’t just sniffing around. They were watching. They were following me.

  A cold dread, entirely separate from the familiar gnawing of The Hunger, settled like ice in the pit of my stomach. It wasn’t just suspicion anymore. It wasn’t just whispers Flicker had picked up. They knew. Or they suspected enough to put a tail on me the moment I surfaced.

  Found.